


Brushstrokes

by Arkada



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: An unspecified time and place in Renaissance Europe, Anal Sex, Artist!Yusuf, Bondage, Dom!Yusuf, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub!Nicolò, Teasing, background andy/quynh, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28933134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkada/pseuds/Arkada
Summary: Yusuf has an artist’s eye for beautiful things. His Nicolò is a very beautiful thing, to be appreciated as slowly and thoroughly as possible.No matter how Nicolò begs him to hurry.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 200





	Brushstrokes

**Author's Note:**

> Rights to the source material? What rights to the source material?

By the time Yusuf finishes tying his knots, Nicolò is flushed pink and near-breathless. Yusuf thinks to run a hand down Nicolò’s side, to calm him, but refrains; there is no sense in spoiling the feast by stealing a taste before it is ready.

Instead, he tugs firmly at the last knot, to ensure it will hold, and steps back to admire what he has wrought.

Nicolò is a vision.

Yusuf’s husband is always a vision, but he is more so now than usual. Utterly bare save for the coil of rope wrapped around his wrists, suspending him from the roofing beams so he can just stand on the balls of his feet. The golden afternoon light pouring in through the windows caresses every inch of Nicolò’s skin, and leaves shadows pooling in the valleys of his flesh. Yusuf’s eye is compelled to drink him in without looking away for a moment.

“ _Ya amar_ ,” Yusuf murmurs, and Nicolò shudders.

They usually speak Arabic to each other in moments like this; it grants a modicum of privacy difficult to find elsewhere. Beyond the Levant, they are unlikely to encounter many who speak the language at all, and even Andromache and Quỳnh are not fluent in the Maghrebi dialect that Yusuf first taught Nicolò over three centuries ago.

But there is another reason they keep Arabic between the two of them alone.

They negotiated their first truce in Greek, and became friends in Nicolò’s native Ligurian, but years later Yusuf’s Arabic was the language they fell in love in. From then to now, it has stayed the language of their romance, too precious for any other purpose; when they speak Arabic, every word means _I love you._

It makes Yusuf weak at the sound of his own voice, and by his reaction, Nicolò fares no better.

“My moon,” Yusuf repeats. “You look exquisite. Are you comfortable?”

Nicolò exhales a cautious breath, and lets himself hang from his wrists. His fingers flex, opening wide and then folding closed again. “Will you be disappointed or pleased if I say _no_?”

“I am not a sadist, beloved. At least, not today.”

They both chuckle. Yusuf’s knife has done many sadistic things to Nicolò in the name of their mutual pleasure. But they have not been in that mood for a few years now, and Yusuf feels no special eagerness to return to it when there are so many other pleasures they can share.

“The rope is not too rough?” Yusuf prompts.

“A little. I like it.”

“Then you shall have it as long as you wish. Only say the word and I shall release you at once.”

The look Nicolò sends him is indulgent yet impatient at the same time. “I remember. I am not going to ask to be cut down before you have even started - I assume you _are_ going to make use of your preparations at some point?”

“Do not worry,” Yusuf murmurs. “I know exactly what I want to do with you.”

Nicolò smiles in anticipation, and Yusuf returns it.

Then he crosses to the chest of their family’s possessions, and pulls out ink, brushes, and paper.

Yusuf can feel Nicolò’s confused stare on his back, but does not let it rush him. A few more odds and ends added to the pile, and he goes to set his supplies down on the wide table in the middle of the room.

Nicolò’s gaze strains to follow him. “What are you doing?”

“What I want,” Yusuf answers, beginning to mix the ink. “You are so patient, my heart, everywhere except our bed. All my likenesses of you in passion are drawn from memory, not life. I thought it time to amend that.”

“But you cannot mean to leave me like this - you have not even touched me-”

“So I haven’t,” Yusuf says, and lays down the brush in his hand. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Perhaps the tone of his voice should alert Nicolò that he is up to mischief. Distracted as Nicolò is by his own need and the way the strain of his position must be beginning to burn, Yusuf does not blame him for missing it.

Yusuf comes up before Nicolò, and cups his face in both hands. With Nicolò standing on his toes, he is for once a few inches taller than Yusuf. Nicolò smiles smugly, believing he has won a concession. Yusuf indulges him and leans in to bring their lips together.

Every kiss feels like the first one, and yet also like Yusuf knows this mouth better than his own. The feel of Nicolò’s skin, the warmth of his flesh, the soft gasp as he tries to press closer. Nicolò tastes of the wine they drank with their midday meal, and Yusuf slides his tongue deeper into Nicolò’s mouth to savor it.

_You promised to touch me_ , Nicolò’s body says, one leg curling behind Yusuf’s to pull him in. _Do it now_ , says the roll of his hips against Yusuf’s stomach.

Yusuf indulges him in this as well, dropping one hand between them to wrap around Nicolò’s cock. He is half-hard already, just from Yusuf binding him. With nothing in reach to slick the way, Yusuf keeps his strokes light, but unrelenting. He does not want to make Nicolò ask him twice, after all.

Nicolò breaks the kiss to gasp for air, head falling back between his raised arms. “Yes, yes, please!”

“Say my name.”

“ _Yusuf_ -”

“Mm.” Yusuf leans in to kiss Nicolò’s exposed, arched neck, flicking his tongue out to taste the sweat starting to shine there. He squeezes Nicolò’s cock, now stiff and throbbing in his hand, before rubbing his open palm over the head. Moisture beads there as well, and Yusuf takes a step back so Nicolò can watch him lift his hand and lick it clean.

Nicolò groans, and thrusts his hips forward. “Yusuf, please…”

“Shh,” Yusuf says, and takes another step back. “I am busy.”

He leaves Nicolò where he hangs and returns to his paper and brushes.

The hiss of Nicolò’s breath through gritted teeth is frustrated, but not yet ruined. Yusuf still has far to go before he reduces Nicolò to that.

“Is this all you mean to do?” Nicolò calls, challengingly, as Yusuf lays his paper flat with smooth stones at the corners, holding it steady. “Bring pleasure to your eyes and nothing else?”

“For now,” Yusuf says, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows to spare the linen from any stray drops of ink. “Be good for me and I shall reward you after. Tilt your head back again.”

Nicolò sighs, but holds the pose for him all the same, as Yusuf knew he would. Yusuf smiles, settles a brush into his hand, and begins to sink more fully into the mode of the artist.

He positioned Nicolò with great care, relative to his view from the table - seen from the back and the side, his face mostly hidden by his raised arm, the jut of his erection just barely visible past his hip. This particular piece, Yusuf thinks, will be most erotic in its promise of more to come, as if inviting the viewer to turn the paper over to see the figure from the front. There will be many more works to accompany this one, by the time Yusuf is sated with stringing Nicolò up in every way they can contrive, but the first… He wants something special for the first.

He paints Nicolò’s back onto the page to begin, an anchor to hang the rest of the image on. Wide shoulders, sculpted by decades upon decades of swordsmanship and archery. The strong yet graceful curve of his spine. Gentle strokes capture his narrow waist and hint at the dimples in the small of his back. Nicolò’s arms are next, rising proudly to the ceiling, power captured here as well. The imagery is more tantalizing, Yusuf’s artistic instincts say, with Nicolò’s strength on full display, his submission gifted, not stolen. Yusuf lightens a small portion of ink just to fill in the ropes around Nicolò’s wrists; a suggestion of restraint and not a show of force. He paints Nicolò’s hands above, broad palms and thick fingers quiescent, curled into relaxed fists.

Nicolò’s face next, the sliver of it that shows. Yusuf focuses on the emotion, the need there, rather than any one feature, a mixture of light and dark ink suggesting at both delicacy and desire. The short fall of his hair, barely brushing the base of his neck in this position. Yusuf’s free hand aches to run through those strands; he rubs his fingers together, imagining the softness of Nicolò’s hair between them.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, knowing exactly when Yusuf’s focus would start to slip. “Yusuf, how does it go?”

Yusuf smiles. “Slower than it would if I were not interrupted,” he says, laying his brush down anyway. “Why do you ask?”

“I recall being promised a reward…”

“ _I_ recall promising that reward for after, not during,” Yusuf says, though he already knows he will give Nicolò what he wants. “Is that not so?”

Nicolò sways his hips invitingly. “Half now, half later?”

Yusuf cannot help himself; he laughs. “As you wish.”

“Still the merchant at heart, my love,” Nicolò teases as Yusuf approaches, and stands before him. “Everything has its price, does it not?”

“And what price do you want to be paid for your service?”

Nicolò’s eyes darken. “Suck my cock?” he asks. “Your lovely hands are busy enough over there, but your mouth could use occupation…”

“Could it,” Yusuf murmurs, and goes to his knees. From here he can smell Nicolò’s arousal, all heat and musk and need. It is the easiest thing in the world to lean forward and taste it.

Sucking Nicolò’s cock is a thrill and a joy, always. It is only made more so by the way Nicolò trembles with the urge to touch him, and cannot. Yusuf draws his tongue up velvet-soft skin and Nicolò shudders, feet slipping on the floor as he tries to find the leverage to thrust into Yusuf’s mouth. Nicolò makes the most delicious sounds of desperation as Yusuf skims his teeth ever so slightly along his cock, before returning to suck in earnest. That wrings a shout of pleasure from Nicolò’s throat, and Yusuf grins to himself. Any moment now…

Nicolò tenses, ready to spill, and Yusuf pulls away completely.

“No!” Nicolò cries, nearly a sob, one foot lifting to kick in the empty air. He sways, momentarily held up only by the rope around his wrists. “No, Yusuf, please-”

“Half now,” Yusuf reminds him, rising to his feet, “and half later. After I am finished.”

Nicolò hisses through his teeth as he catches his breath. “I should have left you behind in Tunis, all those years ago. If I had gotten on that ship like I planned to-”

“It is three centuries and more too late for regrets, my heart,” Yusuf says. He cups a hand under Nicolò’s chin and kisses him, open-mouthed and filthy, his lips still tender from sucking Nicolò’s cock. Nicolò kisses him back hungrily; Yusuf allows him whatever he wants, knowing it will not be enough to let him come.

They break apart for air, and Yusuf stands up on his toes, matching Nicolò, to lean their foreheads together. “You will have your reward, I promise,” he says softly. “If you truly cannot bear the waiting I will cut you down now-”

Nicolò glares at him sharply. “You will do no such thing.”

Yusuf beams at him. “I love you more than life itself.”

“Finish your painting, and then you can show me how much you love me.”

Yusuf steps away again and rushes back to the table, for the first time noticing how hard he himself is. The short journey across the room is not terribly comfortable as a result. He adjusts his cock just enough to relieve some of the pressure and focus on completing the rest of the sketch. A deep breath, brush balanced in his fingers, and he resumes his work.

Ink shapes muscular buttocks, full and round as a ripe peach, and as tempting. The brush descends to outline Nicolò’s thighs, thick and sturdy, and further down to his calves; the lines show the tension as Nicolò strains to hold himself upright. Arched feet, Yusuf twisting the brush to a fine point, one lifted ever so slightly higher than the other, capturing an attempt at movement, restrained. Finally Yusuf traces the tip of Nicolò’s cock onto the paper, standing out in the air, curved upwards from the strength of his lust. Yusuf’s mouth waters all over again at the reminder.

“Lovely,” Yusuf whispers, scattering sand over the ink to help it dry. “You are a very perfect muse. How jealous the great masters would be if they knew I had you.”

“I am glad to hear it. And you will oblige me by coming over here and _having me_ , as you put it so well-”

“Patience,” Yusuf chides, and Nicolò snarls at him. “This is only the first layer.”

“God and all the saints, the first of _how many?_ ”

Yusuf shrugs a shoulder. “Until it is finished.”

“Yusuf al-Kaysani, you-”

Footsteps outside distract Yusuf for a moment, alert for danger before he recognizes them: Andromache and Quỳnh, returning from the markets. Then comes a knock at the door, Andromache’s characteristic two raps, followed by three.

“Our sisters are back,” Yusuf says to Nicolò. “Shall I let them in, or bid them take themselves elsewhere for another hour?”

“So long as you follow through on your promise sometime today, I do not care!”

Yusuf takes him at his word, and goes to unbar the door.

“This is your problem now,” Andromache greets him in the local dialect of Latin, dumping a covered basket into Yusuf’s arms. “You wanted fish for dinner, you cook it.”

“Oh, Nicolò!” Quỳnh says cheerfully, sliding past them and into the room. “I was going to ask you to help me fletch these new arrow shafts, but I see you’re rather tied up at the moment.”

Yusuf does not need to see Nicolò to know he is scowling. “Very funny.”

Andromache leans past Yusuf’s shoulder to eye Nicolò as well. “What’s Yusuf doing to you?”

“Nothing!” Nicolò spits. “That’s rather the problem.”

“I was getting to it,” Yusuf says to Andromache, feeling the need to defend his reputation. “I only stopped to let you two in.”

Nicolò scoffs. “Liar - what happened to the painting needing _more layers?_ ”

“That is precisely what I was getting to, of course-”

“Is this my calligraphy set?” Quỳnh asks, standing over Yusuf’s array of brushes and ink.

Yusuf clears his throat and goes to place Andromache’s basket in a dark corner where it will stay cool, coincidentally putting a few more feet between himself and Quỳnh. “I am not using it for calligraphy, so, perhaps it is not anymore.”

Andromache rolls her eyes. “You need to stop reading that old Greek sophist nonsense. I was there when they came up with half of it and believe me, it’s only different from normal drunken rambling because somebody wrote it down. It has not improved the second time around. _Renaissance_ , my ass…”

“You _need_ to buy me new ink tomorrow,” Quỳnh says with a pointed look at Yusuf.

Nicolò twists in place, trying to keep them all in sight. “If I may voice an opinion-”

“Yes, you think Yusuf needs to bend you over and fuck you, that much is blindingly obvious.” Andromache leans over the table to eye Yusuf’s painting. “It is a decent likeness,” she opines - high praise indeed. “I say leave it as it is and put Nico out of his misery.”

Quỳnh hums her agreement. “Those ropes cannot be comfortable. Hemp, Yusuf, what were you thinking? Next time you want to play, let me know. I still carry some silk rope Andromache used to be fond of.”

Andromache snorts. “Only in the way you _used to be_ fond of a whip.”

Quỳnh’s eyes glint and she abandons her purchases on the table to grab Andromache’s jacket with both hands. “Perhaps we should make sure that rope is still good, before sharing it with them…”

Andromache grins as they retreat towards the other room. “No rush on dinner, Yusuf!”

The door shuts firmly behind them and Yusuf sighs relief. Much as he loves his sisters, he does not need their commentary as he takes his husband apart. 

“Alone at last,” he says, returning to Arabic as he turns to face Nicolò again. “Now, what to do about it?”

Nicolò’s shapely legs have begun to tremble finely from the strain of standing so high. His cock, still hard, stands out from the cradle of his hips, flushed red and dripping at the tip. Those hands Yusuf painted as loose and relaxed are now in tense fists, one of them gripping the rope suspending him from the ceiling to help take the weight out of his wrists. He breathes heavily, as if from exertion, and under the fall of his hair his eyes burn with need.

He looks divine. God be praised for the wonder that is this man.

“Perhaps Andromache was right about this much,” Yusuf muses, slowly coming closer. “Shall I cut you down and fuck your pretty ass like you deserve?”

“I have only been begging you to do that for the past half hour!”

“But it would be a shame to ruin the knots in haste, when I spent so long to tie them just right…”

“Yusuf, I swear-”

Yusuf lays a finger on Nicolò’s lips to quiet him. “So here is what I shall do, and you shall be patient while I do it, because you cannot be otherwise. I shall open you up for my cock, and I shall touch you too, because you have been so good for me. Then I shall cut you down and fuck you, until you are dripping with me, and then and only then, light of my eyes, will I untie you.”

Nicolò’s lips sharpen to a grin under Yusuf’s finger. “And I at your mercy meanwhile - very well, I am in your hands.”

“I adore you,” Yusuf says, his heart giving itself to Nicolò all over again. “You are more to me than I could ever find the words to tell you.”

Nicolò laughs. “Keep trying, you shall find some eventually. Find some oil too, while you’re at it.”

Yusuf gives Nicolò a courtly bow as he steps back to search for both oil and some worthy poetry. “Your smiles teach my heart how to beat, your eyes opening in the morning are my sunrise. A day in which I do not touch you is a day wasted.”

It is not Yusuf’s best work, but he is in a hurry and distracted besides. He locates a small glass bottle of oil in Quỳnh’s bags; he’ll buy her more tomorrow along with her ink. He returns to Nicolò with a few more lines. “Surely we were made for each other, for no hand could fit in mine as well as yours does. No mouth could better match my own, no arms hold me closer-”

Nicolò adds helpfully, “Your cock, my ass…”

“And the other way around, too.”

“No, you misunderstand. That was an instruction. Your cock, my ass, now.”

“Oh, my love.” Yusuf is close enough, standing at Nicolò’s back, to whisper it directly in his ear. Minute shivers run down Nicolò’s spine at the words. “Until you are free of these ropes, you do not get to give me instruction.”

“Yes, I do. You have just elected not to listen.”

Yusuf traces Nicolò’s lips with a fingernail. “Should I gag this lovely mouth, then? You did ask to be at my mercy.”

“If that is what you want.” Nicolò bows his head, the picture of sweet submission. Yusuf knows better than to believe it, and waits for the rest. “But I think you would rather hear how desperate I am for you, how I ache for you to fill me, how I will cry your name when you split me open…

There it is. “ _Nicolò_ ,” Yusuf moans, forehead falling to Nicolò’s shoulder. Mindlessly, his hips grind forward against Nicolò’s ass, cock seeking relief of any kind. Knowing he is only making it worse does not help him stop.

“Yes, just like that. Half the city will hear how well you please me, how thick your cock is, how long, how being fucked by you is paradise itself-”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Yusuf can barely open the bottle of oil without spilling it everywhere, and it comes at the cost of dropping the stopper instead. He steadies his hands enough to pour some oil over his fingers and reaches out for Nicolò’s ass.

Two fingers slide inside him as easy as breathing. Nicolò opens for him as Yusuf presses deeper, spreading the slick oil around. After over three centuries together, their bodies are like fine instruments, perfectly in tune with each other. 

“How I love your fingers, Yusuf,” Nicolò gasps as Yusuf pushes more oil inside him. “You always know just what I want- _yes, right there-_ ”

Yusuf smiles and drags the pads of his fingers over that spot again. Nicolò gives a wordless groan of assent and rocks his hips back onto Yusuf’s hand. He is beautiful like this, shameless and chasing his pleasure. Yusuf leans in and kisses the nape of Nicolò’s neck, nose buried in his hair. Lips hungry for the taste of Nicolò’s skin, Yusuf does it again, and again, and only stops to speak.

“Are you ready for more?”

Nicolò nods. Yusuf pulls away completely to slick both hands with oil, nearly emptying the bottle, before pushing three fingers back into Nicolò’s ass and wrapping his other hand around Nicolò’s cock. 

He is as hard as steel in Yusuf’s palm, pulse throbbing in a desperate drumbeat. Yusuf groans and thrusts his own cock forward, still clothed, to grind against Nicolò’s hip. Nicolò’s head falls between his raised arms, chin to his breast, chest heaving as he fights for breath.

“Are you watching?” Yusuf asks, breathless himself. “Can you see what I am doing to you? Can you _feel_ -” he accentuates that with a rough shove of his cock into Nicolò’s hip, “how much I want you? But I’m going to have you spill first, beloved, while all you can do is hang there and let me please you.”

Yusuf plunges his fingers as deep inside Nicolò as they will go, and jerks at his cock hard and fast, the way Nicolò likes best when he is worked up like this. Nicolò shouts wordlessly and jerks at the rope suspending him, hips rocking forward and then back to get more of Yusuf’s touch. Yusuf gives him everything he wants, all his focus bent to making Nicolò feel good. 

“So close,” Nicolò gasps, “just a little more, please-”

“Yes, Nicolò, I will not deny you this time.” Yusuf keeps his hands at work, and rubs his cock against Nicolò’s hip again, a promise of what comes next. He drops his hand from Nicolò’s cock for one instant to tug at his balls, pulling a shout from Nicolò’s throat, then tugs at Nicolò’s cock with the same movement. His fingers plunge into the slick, wet heat of Nicolò’s body as deep as they will go, thumb pressed behind his balls to massage that tender spot from outside as well as in. 

“Let me see you,” Yusuf urges, squeezing Nicolò’s cock from base to tip. “Come for me, my moon, so good, so beautiful-”

Nicolò cries out and comes all over Yusuf’s hand, cock shuddering as he spills. The sound of his pleasure is the finest music Yusuf could ever hope to hear. He continues stroking Nicolò’s cock and twitches the fingers still buried inside him, wringing out a few more droplets of fluid to fall to the floor. Nicolò twists in Yusuf’s hold, lost in sensation, only the rope around his wrists keeping him upright.

Just before it will become too much, Yusuf pulls his hands free, settling his arms around Nicolò’s waist. Nicolò’s exhales turn soft and easy, though his weight leans back against Yusuf for support. Pressed this close, Yusuf can feel again the fine tremors going through Nicolò’s body as he fights to hold his position. The release cannot have helped him find strength.

Yusuf smiles against Nicolò’s neck. “How do you fare?”

Nicolò takes a few moments to speak; when he does, his voice is steady and resolved. “I was promised a fucking, and I am still waiting for you to keep your word. Put me on my knees, now, or I will do it myself.” 

“That is not much of a threat,” Yusuf says, pulling his knife from his belt and stretching up to saw through the rope lifting Nicolò’s hands to the ceiling. “Either way, I will get what I want.”

“My way will take longer, this I promise you. You _might_ get what you want come morning.”

“I cannot wait that long,” Yusuf declares, and cuts the last strand of rope.

Nicolò staggers, his anchor lost. Yusuf catches him close and sinks carefully to the floor before one or both of them can overbalance and fall. Just as he said he would, he positions Nicolò on his knees, face-down, arms outstretched ahead of him with the rope still knotted around his wrists. On impulse, Yusuf takes up his knife again and drives it through the trailing length of rope, pinning Nicolò to the floor.

Nicolò’s breath shudders out of him, and he arches his back invitingly. “Bound and helpless still, my clever love. How will you have me?”

His willing surrender leaves Yusuf wordless. He finds the bottle of oil he abandoned earlier and unbuckles his belt frantically with his other hand. It is a graceless rush of pulling his cock out and slicking it, settling himself behind Nicolò, and pushing forward into him.

The first thrust feels like coming home, like a blade sliding into its sheath, like the answer to every question Yusuf could ever want to know. He is only whole when Nicolò is with him, and never more than when their bodies are joined like this, as intimate, as physical, as any two can be. 

_Starlight on a sea of grass_ , Yusuf thinks, almost dream-like, _my home is wherever your eyes behold me._

And that is enough poetry, he thinks a moment later. If he continues in this vein, he will have to turn Nicolò over to _see_ his eyes, and that will quite ruin everything they have been working towards. 

Instead, Yusuf sets both hands on Nicolò’s hips, fingers digging in, and starts to fuck him properly. He will not last, for all he has neglected his cock until now - the long lines of Nicolò’s back are too tempting, the clenching heat of his body too good. Once Yusuf has started his lust takes over, a hunger that takes whatever it wants and will have everything Nicolò offers. 

“Need you,” he gasps, unthinkingly. “Need you, my heart, my Nicolò, Nicolò-”

“Yes, Yusuf, yes, I am yours-”

Yusuf sobs and slams his cock into Nicolò, chasing his end. He knows this dance so well, what to take and how to take it, knows the jut of Nicolò’s hipbones against his fingers and the sounds of their mingled breaths, the slap of their thighs together, knows the searing fire that runs through his veins and calls him higher. 

Nicolò’s fingernails scratch against the floor as his bound hands scrabble for purchase, and the sight of his wrists in their rope is Yusuf’s undoing. The beauty, the trust, the _gift_ of him-

Yusuf’s pleasure is a white wave crashing over him. He drowns happily for long, countless moments, and half-collapses over Nicolò’s back when it recedes. That is a good place to land, and Yusuf tugs him closer, letting himself fall into the vast canvas of warm skin presented to him. Nicolò supports him effortlessly, perfectly stable despite the hard use Yusuf has already put him to. Yusuf presses closer still, and finds himself frustrated by the amount of clothing - all his own - separating them. Nicolò chuckles softly when Yusuf rubs his lips against his neck, trying to make up for the loss.

“My love?” Nicolò murmurs after a few moments.

“Mm?”

“Untie me so I may hold you.”

Yusuf groans half-heartedly at the effort, but extends an arm regardless to pluck at the rope binding Nicolò’s wrists. He is tied with a sailor’s knot, unmoving until Yusuf pulls on it just so and it falls apart in an instant. 

Released, Nicolò turns himself over beneath Yusuf, until he lies on his back with Yusuf atop him. Nicolò’s fingers comb through Yusuf’s curls and scratch pleasantly against his scalp. Their limbs tangle together, one of Nicolò’s feet rising to trace lines up and down Yusuf’s calf. 

It is an improvement, for all Yusuf remains inexcusably overdressed. “I wear too much.”

“Too much? Do you intend to prepare our dinner naked?”

Yusuf reaches up and pulls on Nicolò’s hair in teasing reproach. “I intend to prepare our dinner an hour hence, once I have had my fill of your skin against mine.”

“My husband thinks to grow tired of me in a mere hour? Alas that I have lost my heart to your caprice-”

“Hush,” Yusuf says, smiling, and pulls Nicolò’s hair again. Nicolò hums happily and arches a little beneath Yusuf, baring his throat. Yusuf goes where he is invited and nuzzles the warm and delicate flesh offered up to him.

“I could never tire of you,” he swears to the steady beat of Nicolò’s pulse against his lips. “If I live another three hundred years, or three thousand, I will pray to spend every day of it at your side.”

“Then we are in agreement, for I no longer know how to live without loving you. I do not think I ever did.”

Yusuf raises himself the few inches necessary to kiss Nicolò’s lips, fitting together as they always do. Nicolò kisses him back, as he always does. Yusuf could kiss him forever and be content. 

He pulls away only when Nicolò guides him to, gentle fingers running down his cheeks. “Andromache did tell you not to rush dinner,” Nicolò muses. “I should say we can afford another two hours before you must rise.”

“Two hours, you say?” Yusuf grins. “That is enough to complete another painting - I think this time I will tie you to a chair, and-”

Yusuf accepts as his due punishment the stinging slap to his ass.

**Author's Note:**

> I love getting to use my Renaissance History high school subject for things!
> 
> Thanks as always to [Haldane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/) and [Apples](https://appleslostherpassword.tumblr.com/) for the beta.
> 
> [My tumblr](https://ao3-arkada.tumblr.com/) for people who like tumblrs.


End file.
